


still (get through)

by CivilWhere



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, gratuitous use of parentheticals, post-monster, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CivilWhere/pseuds/CivilWhere
Summary: "Quentin doesn't mind -- he's always liked car rides, the way they free you from any expectation of doing anything more than simply sitting in a car -- except that for the past half an hour Eliot has had his hand resting on Quentin's thigh, occasionally moving it up or down or drumming his fingers lightly, but mostly just resting his hand, heavy and warm, halfway up Quentin's thigh. And Quentin, who hopes he seems relaxed or at least normal on the outside, is a needy mess on the inside."Quentin sits in a car and thinks about how Eliot has changed since coming back to him and also is very preoccupied by wanting something (someone) he can finally have.





	still (get through)

He’s in the backseat of a car. Quentin can't really remember the last time he was in a car; maybe that time they robbed a bank? He thinks he's probably spent more time on boats than in cars lately, and that should be weird but comparatively, well, not so much. But he’s in the backseat of a car, and Josh is driving, and Penny23 (who, despite a weird sense of loyalty to the original Penny, Quentin is starting to think of as just Penny) is in the front seat, and Eliot is sitting next to Quentin. 

They're heading into Western Mass to get something Kady needs (something they need, because this is the next fight, there’s always a next fight, but also it’s still sort of Kady’s fight that they’re supporting her in) to help the Hedges, and everyone agreed that since Josh had the car and the Library is keeping a closer eye than ever on magic use, driving a few hours each way to stay under the radar made sense. 

Quentin doesn't mind -- he's always liked car rides, the way they free you from any expectation of doing anything more than simply sitting in a car -- except that for the past half an hour Eliot has had his hand resting on Quentin's thigh, occasionally moving it up or down or drumming his fingers lightly, but mostly just resting his hand, heavy and warm, halfway up Quentin's thigh. And Quentin, who hopes he seems relaxed or at least normal on the outside, is a needy mess on the inside. 

They've been having a somewhat ridiculous amount of sex in the short time since Eliot got back (“got back” is how they refer to his return from being possessed by the Monster, at least in casual conversation, because when they talk about it in any more specific terms -- which they do, sometimes, because talking about things is something they try to do now -- they end up wrapped around each other, touching everywhere to remind themselves that they're both here) and it's great, Quentin loves it (loves _him_ ), but it means that his sex drive has been on that hairpin trigger that regular care and feeding of it can lead to, and for the last thirty minutes all Quentin has been able to think about is Eliot sliding his hand further up his thigh and discreetly getting him off in his pants in the backseat of this car while Julia’s maybe future boyfriend and Margo’s maybe current boyfriend sit a foot in front of them. 

“Oh, and Kady adopted a puppy for a minute. I'm not actually sure what happened to him? He was cute though,” Penny(23) says from the front seat, cutting into Quentin's desperate battle between trying not to think of Eliot rubbing him off and being unable to think of anything except Eliot rubbing him off. 

They've been filling Eliot in on things he missed. They finished catching him up on the major events and developments days ago, but it turns out there are a surprising amount of little things that have happened, and by unspoken agreement they've all been telling Eliot everything they can think of, no matter how insignificant, like maybe if he knows about that time a bird brought someone a sandwich it will close up the aching gap between him and the rest of them, like maybe they didn't almost lose him at all. 

“I hope he's okay,” Eliot says, looking a little bit concerned. He's like that now: more genuinely expressive than he was before, more open to showing what he's actually thinking in casual settings. Quentin likes it (loves it) even though it's overwhelming at times, having Eliot look at him without hiding what he's feeling. Julia says this is how Eliot has always looked at him -- not at everyone, just at Quentin in particular -- but he's not sure how that can be true. Because now, every time Eliot looks at him, Quentin wants so badly to drop to his knees and either suck him off or ask him to marry him or maybe both, and that's a lot to feel all at once. 

Eliot moves his hand up Quentin's thigh and Quentin can't help his little intake of breath. He's positive it wasn't audible in the front seat, even with the general quiet of Josh's car, but Penny still looks back at them with what Quentin swears is relief, like he's been waiting for an excuse to say something without embarrassing both of them by revealing how much Penny can pick up on even through their mental wards. Or maybe Quentin is just more obvious than he thinks. The idea makes him feel even more flushed and warm.

“Do you want to stop somewhere for a minute and stretch?” Penny asks, reasonably casually. He's been more gracious with Quentin since they stopped the Monster together, and has always seemed to be made up of slightly more rounded edges than their original Penny anyway, despite everything. Quentin is learning to be less surprised at these moments of kindness, but he’s still grateful for them. 

“Oh, yeah, actually,” Eliot says, dipping his head a little. “Thanks.” 

It's not that Eliot is shy now, or meek. On the contrary: he'd come out of his possession swinging, quite literally, and hadn't shown a hint of anything other than righteous fury and courage until the Monster, in the body that had been intended for his sister, was completely destroyed. He'd even seemed resolute walking up to Quentin afterwards, once they were sure it was really over. He’d brought one bloodied hand up to rest on the back of Quentin’s neck and asked a quiet but steady, “Is this okay?” and then, as soon as Quentin had given a little nod, kissed him deeply in front of everyone in that still smoldering field. 

It wasn't until they'd gone back to the apartment and washed the debris of the destroyed altar and the smell of smoke and the tang of copper from their skin and hair and mouths and curled up in one of the beds with Margo wrapped around him from behind and Quentin settled exhausted in his arms and Julia on the other side of the door keeping watch, just to be safe, that this softness had emerged in Eliot. 

It isn't weakness, though he’d been exhausted for days after. And it isn't guilt, though he's still somewhat cautious around their friends, making his presence clearly known and telegraphing his movements as much as possible. But there’s a subtle gentleness to him now, something Quentin almost recognizes from their other life spent in relative safety and yet also distinctive and new. 

Sometimes, like when they had told Eliot (at his insistence) about everything the Monster had done while controlling his body, that softness retreats, replaced by a harder, more armored exterior. But it always seems close to the surface now, and Quentin thinks maybe he in particular brings it out in him. He likes that. 

“It's not a rush,” Quentin adds, hoping that Eliot is agreeing for the same reason he wants to stop and not because he really needs to pee or something. 

“No problemo. I just want to get a little farther away from the city first,” Josh says from the driver’s seat at the same time as Eliot pulls on his seat belt to give himself slack and leans over, his chin brushing against Quentin's shoulder. 

“Hopefully it will be a little bit of a rush,” he says, low and hot in Quentin's ear so the others can't hear him. Quentin bites down on his lip to keep himself from making noise, and this turns out to be a good decision because Eliot immediately follows his play on words with a feather light stroke of his fingers along the outline of Quentin's aching cock, mercifully and murderously mostly concealed by his now too-tight pants. 

Quentin looks to the front seat to make sure they haven't already scandalized their friends, but Josh is focused on the road, tapping along on the steering wheel with a song that's playing too low for them to hear from the backseat, and Penny is typing on his phone, possibly trying to find out what happened to that puppy but more likely texting Julia to flirt. They seem distracted enough that Quentin risks looking at Eliot, and it's absurd that he has to think of looking at him as a risk but _Jesus fuck_ what just looking at the man does to him when he's worked up like this.

When the Monster was still in control, there were times when Quentin was afraid it would hurt to look at Eliot when he was back. He hated seeing Eliot's body dragged around in that strange way the Monster had of moving, hated the hollow-eyed stares and sick approximations of smiles, hated the casual touches that were so close to what he wanted but so repulsive coming from the thing that had stolen Eliot away from him. But now Quentin can't believe he was ever worried about not being able to tell the difference; there's nothing left of the Monster in Eliot, and Quentin is so easily able to love everything he sees when he looks at him.

“El, I'm not sure this is a well thought out plan,” he says under his breath, hoping that if they are overhead at least his friends will just think he's being overly cautious about their not very exciting or risky retrieval mission. 

Eliot moves back enough that he can look Quentin directly in the eyes but keeps his voice pitched low. “Do you not want to, or are you embarrassed because you do want to?” 

It's a tease at a kink they haven't explored much yet (something they somehow missed in their other life, and he would wonder at that but thinking too much about whether they’re the same people with the same wants makes his head hurt, and besides it's exciting to know there are still so many things they haven't done together, so many new things they will do), but it's also more than that. Eliot had never been careless about consent, but in Quentin's experiences with him before he had rarely insisted on verbal confirmation. He'd never pushed, never in fifty years pressured Quentin into doing anything he didn't adamantly want, but he'd let looks and touches and tension speak for themselves most of the time. Since he got back, however, Eliot is all about express verbal consent. 

And, if he's totally honest, that really does it for Quentin, too. He's not surprised by this necessarily, but the way Eliot asks, the way Eliot makes Quentin say what he wants ( _that_ he wants, and sometimes _how badly_ he wants) is good and comforting and exceedingly hot in a way that keeps Quentin's brain from turning his own neediness into something negative. 

“I need to hear you say it, Q,” Eliot had said their first night together (the third night since he got back, after two nights spent pressed against each other so tightly they were a mess of limbs and sweat-stuck skin in the morning but too worn and frayed to do anything except sleep and hold each other and sleep), his thumb tugging gently at Quentin's bottom lip as if he were coaxing the words out like a wobbly-legged foal from a stable. 

He'd drawn Eliot's thumb into his mouth, wrapped his lips around it and sucked, flicked his tongue along the tip. He'd known what he was doing, trusted that Eliot had the same memories of every time Quentin had taken his cock between his lips in the same way, would also remember the years ( _years_ ) of rainy afternoons and quiet nights spent learning exactly how to best pull pleasure from each other's bodies. That sort of callback had to be enough of a yes, he'd thought. 

But Eliot had insisted. “Please. Tell me what you want. I need to hear you say it, please,” he'd repeated, and Quentin had felt himself flush when he let Eliot's thumb fall from between his lips, but once the words had started coming out he'd found that he didn't want to stop. 

“I want to take you in my mouth,” he'd said, watching the way Eliot's eyes slid almost closed before going wide and desperate when Quentin continued. “I want to taste you. I want to taste all of you, every part of you. I've missed,” he'd paused, swallowed. “I've missed how you taste, El. Missed it so badly.” 

They'd both been crying by the end of it. Quentin thinks maybe they'd started when he got on his knees in front of the bed and took Eliot as deep down his throat as he could and Eliot curled his body over him like a cocoon, like a shield. He knows for sure that by the time Eliot had come down his throat, by the time he'd been hoarse and a little sloppy and begging for Eliot to open him up slowly and then take him, fuck him, claim him, they'd both had shiny eyes and wet cheeks. He'd stopped trying to hide it while Eliot worked his slicked up fingers into him, had just let his tears and occasional sobs mingle with his moans and gasps and pleas, and so had Eliot by the time he was hard again and pressing into Quentin. And then Quentin had stopped thinking altogether and let himself get lost in that overwhelming, perfect feeling of Eliot sinking into him that he'd felt so many times before and also, at the same time, seemed to be feeling in an entirely new way, like walking into a place you've never been but knowing you belong there, like stumbling through dark branches and ending up on a sunny lawn with a gorgeous stranger who’s waiting for you, who knows your name. 

“Quentin?” Eliot asks, nudging him gently to bring him back to the present, to the backseat of the car, and Quentin remembers that he's waiting for a reply. For his consent. 

“I guess that depends on what you have in mind,” he answers, knowing he wants whatever Eliot has planned. But sometimes he likes (needs) to hear these things said aloud too. 

Eliot gives him one of the slow, intimate smiles that Quentin has been seeing more of in the past few days than he can ever remember seeing before. Well, not before as in before in Fillory-of-the-past, in their other life, but otherwise before. In their own before. 

“I was thinking,” Eliot starts, soft and deep against Quentin's ear again, “that we could take a walk around to the back of whatever fine establishment we end up stopping at, and while our friends are otherwise occupied with refueling, I could get on my knees for you and swallow you down until you come in my mouth for me. Would that work for you?” 

Quentin is pretty sure that if Eliot keeps talking like that he's not going to make it to said fine establishment, but the desperation is surprisingly more tolerable all of a sudden, less clawing and more simmering, easier to manage now that there's a goal to focus on. “That, uh, that works for me,” he agrees, looking up at Eliot in what he hopes is an at least somewhat attractive way. 

Eliot pulls back, looking eager and gorgeous and, Quentin realizes with a little flip of his stomach, something like worshipful. “Thank you,” Eliot says, like Quentin has offered him a precious gift instead of agreeing to receiving a blowjob behind a gas station. 

Quentin smiles, warm and not untouched by wonder himself, because that sappy, sticky-sweet part of his brain (that's been glutting itself on happiness ever since Eliot got back and kissed him in front of everyone and whispered “I was a fool. Please forgive me. What I should have said was: yeah, why the fuck not? Let's fucking do this.”) reminds him that all of these kisses and touches and moments of being together actually are a pretty amazing gift.

He laces their fingers together where Eliot's hand still rests on his thigh and watches the late afternoon light flicker through the trees lining the highway. And even though this has always been true, has never needed to be said out loud between them, it's his to speak into being now whenever he wants, so Quentin squeezes Eliot's hand gently and says, "Anything for you."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Here I Am by The Boxer Rebellion
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://wanderingmargo.tumblr.com/)!


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